Once Is More Than Enough.
Our writing group was given a home assignment; to write in a style of story different to what we normally write. I chose a violent tale as my topic and the story’s plot evolved from a bank robbery I read about in a Sunday paper. It gave a brief description of the robber and I took it from there.
o0o
Carol sighed as she watched their last customer enter the bank. That’s right. Wait until we’re closing, she thought as the lone male wandered in and over to the form counter.
Carol’s gaze shifted to her friend Judith, in the cubicle next to her. Judith had just finished serving her last customer.
Nodding toward the lone man, Carol said, “I’ll take care of slow pokes and you can close and start balancing if you want.”
“Okay, thanks”. Judith slid her money drawer open, lifted the notes out and started counting.
Carol glanced at the back of the man and, while she waited, critically appraised him. His baggy maroon track pants faded blue checked shirt and grubby sneakers made him look scruffy, she decided. Like a scarecrow; in need of a decent meal.
Her mind wandered to food and the shopping she had to do. I’ll pick up some lamb chops for tonight. They can go with last night’s left over fried rice.
She looked up. At last! The man stood in front of her and, smiling as she had been trained to do, Carol asked, “Can I help you?”
Without speaking, the man slid a canvas bank deposit bag across to her. Carol opened the bag and pulled out a piece of paper. Scrawled in pencil was:
‘There’s a dirty syringe under the jumper in front of you.
Keep quiet and put all the money into the bag.
Make a sound and I’ll jab you with this needle.
I’ve got AIDS.’
The impact of what was happening hit Carol like a ton of bricks. Oh, my god! We’re being robbed. She tried to pull her arm back but his left hand snaked out grabbing her sleeve, holding her firm. She looked in to his face. Cold, unwavering eyes stared back, mesmerizing her.
The man moved his jacket a fraction, exposing the needle of the syringe. He edged it toward her hand. “Now!” he whispered, gesturing toward the bag. Shaking, Carol stuffed the notes into the bag with her free hand.
He scooped his jacket and bulging bag off the counter and, grinning, he saluted to Carol before walking quickly out the door, leaving her staring at the discarded syringe on the counter.
“Balanced! Now it’s your turn” Judith said. She stared at Carol’s stricken look. “Hey, you okay?”
Carol didn’t answer. Judith saw the drawer open and the money gone. Then she saw the syringe. Quickly sliding her foot over the button on the floor she pounded it underfoot. Bulletproof shields slid into place in front of the tellers, alarms screamed out and startled staff came running, but the robber was gone.
It was now six months since the robbery. The robber had been caught and Carol had undergone trauma counselling.
Everything appeared to be normal, but Carol burned with a hidden rage that threatened to engulf her.
The two friends discussed the problem over lunch. “It’s affected my life, “Carol said. “I’m scared to go out at night.
I’ve had extra security put in my unit; I wake up to every sound, thinking it’s a burglar. Every scruffy male that comes near me or into the bank I think is a robber – I’m scared of shadows. I’m telling you Judith; I don’t want to live like this”.
Sympathising, Judith patted Carol’s arm. “What did the counsellor say”? she asked.
Carol snorted. “That I’ll forget in time. Fat chance. Meanwhile, my life is hell.” She bit a large chunk out of her sandwich, her jaw pounding, venting her frustration.
“Relax,” Judith said. She slid her hand over Carol’s, stopping her from taking another big bite. “Have you thought about a change of scenery? Going on a holiday?”
Carol sighed. “Yes, I have. But it’s not an outer thing. It’s what’s in here” she said tapping over her heart. “That’s why it’s affecting me so much. It violated my rights as a human being.” She laughed mirthlessly. “What’s the saying, ‘took away my power?’ Well, it did – and I want it back”. For once, Judith didn’t know what to answer.
It was getting dark when Carol reached home and the tall bushes now had a sinister appearance as she hurried by. In her haste to get inside she fumbled with her keys. Once safely inside Carol breathed a sigh of relief and flicked the foyer switch, flooding the small space with light. She turned; security locked the outside door and hurried into the kitchen, flicking lights on as she went.
Carol cast a nervous, critical eye over the interior of her unit, looking for signs of forced entry. Its open plan design enabled her to see from the kitchen into the dining room and lounge area. She relaxed when she saw everything was as she had left it.
Taking a small glass out of a cupboard Carol poured wine into it and flicked the TV on with the remote control lying on the cupboard. The news was on and Carol listened to a high-ranking police officer debating with a civil libertarian as to who were the real victims of crime. Shaking her head in disbelief at what was said; Carol put her frozen dinner in the microwave.
“Better put these away first before I get comfy” she muttered and, scooping her handbag and jacket off the kitchen bench, she took them down the hall, into her bedroom.
It’s good to be safely at home, Carol thought, flicking her bedroom light on. Her earlier fears seemed ridiculous now, and laughing at herself for being scared, she slid the mirrored wardrobe door open and reached in for a coat hanger.
Her splayed fingers groped, connecting with a squashed stocking-masked face of a man hiding in her wardrobe. Carol tried to scream but only a faint gurgling came out.
Moving fast, the man leapt out, his outstretched hands hitting Carol in her chest, knocking her backwards onto the bed.
Survival instincts kicked in over blind panic as Carol spun sideways, landing on all fours on the floor, bounced up and sprinted down the hall with him after her. She made it to the end of the hall before he caught her. Swinging his arm around her neck and leaping onto her back, his weight and their momentum brought them both crashing to the carpet in the lounge room.
Winded, Carol sprawled, face down. His arm was over her mouth and she bit as hard as she could into it.
“Bitch” he snarled, grabbed the back of Carol’s hair, pulled her head up and slammed it into the carpet.
Momentarily stunned, Carol lay there, pinned to the floor while he eased his sleeve up and examined his arm.
Grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling hard he dragged Carol’s head up, twisting, forcing her to look at his arm. A large flap of bloodied skin hung, exposing the flesh and muscle underneath.
“You’ll pay for that,” he whispered menacingly into her ear. “I’ll make you wish you’d never been born”.
The intruder reached over, turning the television on full blast and the speakers quivered to the distorted sound blaring from them. Forcing Carol onto her back he straddled her torso and rained stinging blows to her head. Carol turned her head from side to side, trying to soften the blows. Panting, his initial fury spent, the man stopped to get his second wind.
Suddenly, all the emotion that had been festering inside Carol since the robbery flared, overrode her fear, giving her super human strength.
“Agggh” A savage scream of pure rage exploded from her. Jerking her body upward Carol toppled her surprised assailant backward, swung her legs up over his head and slammed her crossed ankles back against his throat, chopping them into his windpipe.
The intruder collapsed onto the carpet, with Carol on his chest. Exerting as much pressure onto her legs as she could Carol bore down while he clawed at her legs, trying to dislodge her.
Suddenly his flaying hands grabbed at Carol’s breasts and, digging his nails in, he yanked as hard as he could.
Screaming in agony, Carol toppled off him and tried to crawl away.
He grabbed at her and fastened onto her ankle. Carol lashed at him with her other foot, hitting him in the face, lunged for the scissors lying by the side of the lounge, catapulted around and, putting all her weight behind her thrust, drove the scissors into his body. She heard metal scraping against bone a split second before his agonised scream rang out.
Yanking the scissors out she lunged again “The worm has turned” she yelled.
Holding his damaged shoulder the intruder leaped over the lounge chair and sprinted toward the door, with Carol after him. Grappling unsuccessfully with the security lock the intruder turned to face Carol, who was edging toward him, scissors ready.
“How do you like being the victim” she shouted, raising her scissors, ready to strike. The intruder whimpered, cowering away from her.
“Open up! It’s the police.” Startled, Carol heard a loud thumping on her door.
“She’s in there officer. I saw her go in. Although how she can stay in there with that infernal racket going on I don’t know.” Carol recognised the voice of Don, her elderly neighbour.
“Just a minute officer” Carol yelled. Gesturing with her scissors, she said to the intruder, “You, flat on the floor face first while I let the cavalry in”.
Standing over him, Carol crunched her right foot onto his neck and reached into a nearby vase of dried flowers where she kept her spare security key. She looked down at the intruder. The feeling of absolute power over him was intoxicating. “It would be so easy for me to press a little harder, crush your spine and make you into a paraplegic” she said, applying more pressure. He stiffened in fear, powerless, waiting.
“No” she finally said, reaching over, inserting her key into the door. “If I did that I’d be no better than you".
Back at work Judith, mouth open-mouthed, listened to her friend telling her of her experience the previous night.
"When the police came in and took the stocking of the intruder's face I recognized him straight away. He was the locksmith I had come and make my home secure. Turns out the police had their suspicions of him but no evidence to tie him to other home invasions and attacks on other women. Last night they caught him red handed and they said with the evidence they have now he will be in jail for a long, long time.
Judith smiled as she heard the satisfaction in her friend's voice. "So, how do you feel now", she asked?
Carol thought for a moment before answering. "Strange to say but I feel empowered. Yes, empowered. I know now that I can take care of myself and no longer need to feel afraid of shadows."
Judith smiled again.. "Good" was all she said. In companionable silence the two women finished their lunch.
The Pear Tree.
The idea for this story came about on my trip to Ireland. I visited a relative and was fascinated to learn that she had growing in her garden a pear tree that had been struck twice by lightning. The tree looked healthy but my relative said that its once prolific annual yield of luscious pears had now diminished to a few hard, inedible ones.
Once back in Australia I used the pear tree as the main subject for a three part Australian story and include the clichéd idea of ‘old age and cunning beats youth and exuberance any day’. I must have been successful enough with this as ‘The Pear Tree’ won second prize in the Victorian Sunraysia 2006 U3A Writing Competition.
o0o
Startled, Nana stared at her fourteen-year-old granddaughter. “What did you say, dear?” she asked.
“I said Dad’s got the axe in the car” Belinda answered. “He said when he comes back, he’s going to chop down your old tree today. Said it’s an eyesore and needs to come down.”
Flicking her long dark hair back as she leaned over the newly baked muffins, Belinda sniffed appreciatively at the sweet-smelling steam rising from them unaware of the change her statement had created in her grandmother.
Drat that son of mine, Nana thought. Since his father died, he always thinks he knows what’s best for me. Well, I don’t want my old pear tree chopped down.
She sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. Next, he’ll be wanting me removed too. Too old to live here alone now Dad has gone, he’ll say. I’ll be more comfortable in a retirement home, he’ll tell me. And just like the pear tree I’ll be uprooted and expected to go without so much as a whimper. Her lips set in a determined line. Well, I’m not going.
And neither is that pear tree. That pear tree and me, we’re here to stay until I say differently!
Pouring the contents of a mixing bowl into two cake tins Nana slid them into the oven and glanced up, her attention momentarily taken by a print on the wall behind her granddaughter. The scene was of a muscular, dark haired man felling trees in the bush while his young wife and baby sat under a tree nearby and watched him.
Looking at her granddaughter she asked innocently “Did anyone ever tell you the story about the pear tree?”
Belinda shook her head.
“Well to me it was the greatest love story, ever” Nana said, sitting on the stool next to Belinda. “Better than any of those Jane Austen novels you love to read”.
“Oh, Nan,” laughed Belinda.
Nana tapped Belinda’s arm. “Well, just you listen and make up your mind” she said. Her gaze flicked to the print on the wall and back to her granddaughter. “Did you know your grandfather and I were childhood sweethearts?” Nana said
Belinda shook her head.
Nodding, Nana glanced back at the print. “This area was all bush when we moved here just after we were married, and your grandfather built this house with his bare hands.” She sighed. “Yes, our little love nest, he called it. And when your father was born twelve months later your grandfather planted that pear tree as a token of his love. It was the most romantic, the best present I’ve ever had” she said softly.
“What! That old pear tree?” Belinda looked out the window at the tree.
“It’s what it symbolizes dear” Nana said. “Your grandfather always believed that while ever that tree grew, so did our love – and so it did.”
“Oh, Nan. That is so-o-o romantic”. Belinda’s eyes were moist.
“Of course the tree was quite small when your grandfather planted it but it did have one tiny pink blossom on its frail little branch” Nana touched Belinda’s arm. “Now, upstairs, in my wardrobe, is our family photo album and pressed between its pages is a tiny, faded blossom” she said. “It’s that first little pear tree flower. If you promise to look after it, I’ll entrust it to you for safe keeping.”
“Oh, Nana, thank you. I will look after it.” Belinda hugged her grandmother. “I’ll go and get it now”.
Nana looked up as her youngest grandson slouched into the kitchen. “Nana, I’m bored” he complained. “When will Daddy be back? I want to go home. There’s nothing to do here.”
Nana smiled at her seven-year-old grandson. His fine brown hair had fallen over his forehead, hiding the freckles there. “Bored, are you?” she said. “Well come have some milk and cake and I’ll tell you a story”.
“I’m not a baby. You don’t need to tell me stories” he said belligerently.
Nana hid a smile. “No indeed, Dennis” she said. “This story is about the bushrangers that used to live in these parts”.
Dennis glanced up, his face brightening. “There used to be bushrangers here, Nana?”
“Yep, there sure were. Lightning Jack and his gang used to roam these parts.” Smiling, Nana patted the stool near her.
“Come and sit here and I’ll tell you all about them” she said.
“Now, nobody knows for sure, but some say Lightning Jack became a bushranger when he was put in jail on trumped-up charges”. Then, remembering her grandson’s love of animals she added. “And while he was in jail there was no-one to look after his farm animals and they all died of hunger and thirst.”
Dennis gasped.
“Well, you can imagine, after that he really hated the law” Nana added. Dennis nodded. He understood.
“He was a real Robin Hood bushranger, robbing the rich to give to the poor. All the people loved him but the troopers hated him because they couldn’t catch him and that made them look real bad.”
“Well, one day, Lightning Jack and some of his gang were riding along when what do they see but a group of uniformed troopers riding along looking for them.”
Dennis’ eyes widened. “Did the troopers see them, Nana?”
“Oh, yes, young Dennis, and a great shout went up from the troopers when they did. The chase was in open country and, lying flat over their horse’s neck, the horsemen all rode like the wind.” Slapping her hand to her side Nana leaned forward emulating the riders. Strands of grey hair escaped from behind her ears and she quickly brushed them back.
“Now, the bushrangers were riding mountain ponies and everyone knows mountain ponies are bred tough with strong hearts that just won’t give in, but they aren’t made for speed in the open country. Those tough little ponies gave it all they had, but the troopers were catching up fast.” Nana paused.
“Go on, Nana. What happened?”
“Well, a trooper’s bullet hit one of the horses and down went the horse – and down came his rider. But” she added,
“quick as a flash Lightning Jack was by his side. Swung him up behind him on his horse and galloped off.”
“But he would have slowed Lightning Jack down and the troopers would have caught them.” Dennis said.
“Yes, things were looking pretty grim for Lightning Jack.”
“But did he get away?” demanded Dennis.
“Well, fortunately, sometime before, an old gold prospector had eaten a pear and spat the pip out.” Nana pointed out the window to the pear tree. “That pip had now grown into a small tree and the two bushrangers were able to take shelter behind the tree, pull their guns and start firing back at the troopers.”
"It’s not a very big tree” said Dennis, looking sceptically out at it.
“No” agreed his grandmother. “But it was the only shelter thereabouts at that time and Lightning Jack couldn’t afford to be choosy. Anyway, bullets were flying everywhere and the two bushrangers were nearly out of ammunition when all of a sudden, the troopers jumped on their horses and galloped away.”
“Yahoo! But why, Nana? Why did they leave?”
“’Cause coming from just over that hill out there were the rest of the bushrangers. They were riding fast to save their leader. They outnumbered the troopers you see, so the troopers rode away.”
“Yippee, Lightning Jack was saved.” Dennis paused, deep in thought. “So that’s why the fruit from the tree is so hard and horrible. It’s got lead poisoning!” He thought some more. “Nana, do you think there might be some old bullets still out there?”
Nana shrugged. “I suppose there could be one or two still around the base of the tree.”
“I’m going out to have a look now” called Dennis, running out the door.
“And so you don’t miss any, it would be a good idea if you pulled out the grass from around the trunk of the tree” his grandmother called after him.
Nana glanced up at the sound of the screen door banging. David, Nana’s twelve-year-old grandson came in like an uncontrolled garden hose and draped his lanky frame over the stool near her. Nana smiled. David’s glasses had slid down his thin nose again.
“Look at him” he said half turning toward the window. “He’s weird. He’s digging around that old tree. Said the bushrangers left bullets there.” Turning toward his grandmother, he asked “Are you sure he is one of us? I think he comes from another planet.”
“Well, if he keeps looking, he might find …” She shook her head. “No, no, he won’t. They said that it would fade. No-one is to know.”
Intrigued, David asked “Know what, Nana?”
Nana clamped her hands over her mouth “Oh dear. I’ve already said too much” she mumbled glancing out of the corner of her eye and studying her grandson. “Oh, I suppose I can tell you, but you must promise not to tell another living soul. Promise?”
David nodded. Satisfied, his grandmother whispered “One night, about two years ago I was woken by a funny sounding hum. I opened my eyes, sat up and, through my window, saw a big, bright silver light coming over the hill there” she said, pointing out the window.
“You saw a flying saucer?” David asked in awe. His grandmother nodded.
“Well, I didn’t know what it was at the time – couldn’t see what shape it was either because there was such a bright light, like a huge beam coming from it. As it came nearer it completely lit up my house and yard.”
David stared at his grandmother.“David, I was so scared I dived under the covers and tried to hide.”
“Go on, Nana. What happened?” he urged.
“Suddenly, as if by a giant unseen hand, the covers were lifted up to the ceiling and I was left exposed and huddled on the bed.”
David blinked several times. “Wow!”
His grandmother nodded. “Then, some mysterious force plucked me off the bed and held me suspended upright, just off the floor and I was propelled through the house and out into the backyard.”
“And there, right over the pear tree was a silver, metal flying saucer, just like you see in pictures. Well, you can imagine, there I was out in the yard, in my pyjamas with all these funny little people with big heads and shiny silver clothes who were all running around the yard. They seemed friendly enough though,” she added.
“What did they want?” David leaned forward and his glasses slipped down his nose again.
“They told me the pear tree was being specially magnetized to be used as a beacon. They told me to look after the tree because in the future they were coming back to communicate with an earthling and it could be one of my grandchildren when he is a man.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to say that. They may change their mind.”
“It’s all right, Nana” said David, patting her arm. “If it’s going to happen, we both know which of your grandchildren they will be communicating with.”
Nana left him to his thoughts as she ran the water in the sink and added the detergent.
“A beacon, eh!” she heard him mutter.
“Here, David” she said moving to the cupboard and rummaging in the odds and ends drawer. “This is a picture of the pear tree after their visit. I’d like you to have the photo. People think it was damaged in a lightning strike, but we know better, don’t we?”
Nodding, David took the photo and went outside to compare the print with the tree. “Watch it with that tree” he yelled at his younger brother. “Are you trying to kill it?”
Nana heard the front door opening and her son calling her. “I’m in the kitchen, Trevor” she answered. “Come on in and have a cup of coffee and some freshly baked cake. And while you are here, did I ever tell you about that pear tree and how you were conceived? No? Well, one beautiful, starlit night your father and I…”
The Sacrifice.
The idea for this story came from a picture in a book called ‘The History of the World.’ It showed an Aztec, or Inca pyramid temples and village life around it. I took it from there.
o0o
“Happy birthday, birthday boy”, I said as I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Yep! Fifty years old today and not looking a day over...? ” I tilted my head and looked critically at my face. Mournful, bloodshot eyes stared back. What was it Jodie had said? “They’re not wrinkles Dad, they’re laughter lines.” Well Jodie, I’ve got news for you. Nobody, but nobody laughs that much.
I pulled at my jowls then let them sag back. Just like a floppy bloodhound, I moaned. What happened? Where’s the guy I used to be? I stared into my eyes, desperately seeking, wishing him back. “Just one more time I’d like to see me when I was the fittest I’ve ever been. That’s not asking too much on my birthday is it?” I called out in despair.
My vision blurred and I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles to clear it. What! – Who’s that? That’s not my reflection. I rubbed my eyes again and stared hard. An ancient Simian head was watching me from inside the mirror. His dark piercing eyes looked intently into mine, mesmerising me and I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
A mist swirled out from the mirror, turning, spinning, whirling, spinning, obliterating everything but the power of his stare and, locked into it, I was sucked, head first, through the mirror, toward him.
There was a roaring sound all around me, as some force pulled me further into the mist. Disorientated, I shot by hazy outlines, feeling like a comet rocketing through space and time. At some stage I slowed down, everything became quiet and just sort of drifted. Then I seemed to slowly descend until felt something solid underfoot. The mist cleared and I was on top of a tall stone building. I was alone.
Where am I? What’s going on? Totally confused I turned, trying to get my bearings and make sense of what was happening. “Help me somebody, “I whimpered scared and desperate for something, anything to help me, yet frightened of what might be there with me.
Stepping back from the edge, I stumbled and the rough stone surface scraped my palms as I landed heavily on them, but I didn’t feel it. I was too astounded at what I had just seen. Crawling closer to the edge I peered over again, not believing my eyes. Stretching below me was what appeared to be – an ancient city!
In the predawn light golden skinned people were milling about below. Most wore brightly colored cloaks like mats draped over their naked torsos. Some had decorated feathered bands in their shoulder length dark hair. All were barefooted. A few workers dressed only in loincloths trudged along the street, carrying woven baskets or bundles of wood on their backs. Thin columns of smoke drifted out from flat-roofed white adobe buildings and beyond were all lush, tropical vegetation and steep mountains as far as my eyes could see.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and, terrified that I was losing my mind, I tried to focus. Where am I, I wondered?
And more important, how am I going to get out of here and back home?
I studied the structure I was on. It was the tallest building and on either side were two smaller, identical shaped buildings. All were four-tiered, flat-topped pyramids with a double row of steps going up their centre front. About a dozen paces in from the top of the steps of this pyramid was a big, stone slab. Past that, like the jewel in a crown, was a heavily ornate building, its pale color resembling the stars.
Boy, oh boy! I know what that is. Greed replaced fear and I raced over, embracing, rubbing my cheek against the smooth surface and stroking the shiny exterior. Gold - gold sheeting!
Well, why not take a piece, I thought? I glanced around. Who’s to know? I dug at the corner of the wall with my fingernails, trying to peel some of the gold off. Damn! It held fast and I skinned my fingers, drawing blood.
The sound of slow rhythmic beating of drums drifted up, distracting me and I hurried to the edge to look down. A solemn procession of men was making their way to the pyramids.
I lay flat and watched twelve drummers in white loin clothes pounding a dirge on their kettledrums. Jeez! They’re made of gold. I chuckled inanely. Talk about beaten gold. Now, if I could get one of those babies back home with me
– I tore my gaze away to watch the parade.
The crowd was hushed as the procession moved past. Behind the drummers were two men I assumed to be high priests. They were dressed in long, bright, yellow-feathered cloaks, the edges touching the unpaved roadway as they walked. Large, yellow-feathered headgear adorned their heads.
Behind them, looking confident and proud walked a kid of about twenty. Jet black shoulder length hair fell loosely to his shoulders and on his head was a gold wreath. His muscular chest was covered by a golden breastplate and on his upper arms were big, gold bangles. A pristine white loincloth covered his hips and, like the others, he was barefoot.
Behind him, in two lines, were ten men dressed in orange. Lesser priests, I guessed. The procession arrived at the steps of the pyramid I was on and started to climb.
Oh-oh! They mustn’t find me. Edging back, I ran inside the golden temple and hid, willing them away. The drummers had stopped beating their drums and it became quiet outside. I waited and when I didn’t hear any further sounds, curiosity overcame my fear and I peered out.
In lines of three the drummers stood near the edge of the pyramid walls; their golden drums silent. The ten minor priests stood on either side of a stone altar, facing it. The two high priests flanked the youth in front of the altar. All were still, watching the faint, pink rays of the rising sun stretching like a halo from behind the mountains.
When the sun edged the mountaintops, its rays strengthening to crimson, flooding the valley with light, one of the priests stepped forward and lifted the golden wreath from the boy’s head. Another unclasped the ornate breastplate while a third priest removed his armbands. Laying the golden objects at the feet of one of the high priests, they stepped back into line. It must be some sort of religious ritual to the sun, I guessed.
The high priest removed something from under his cape and I strained to get a better look. I gasped! It was a jewel encrusted gold container, shaped like a genie bottle!
Holding it in both hands he stepped up to the youth, bowed and offered the container to him. Solemnly, the boy took it, raised it high and saluted to the four winds. I stared at the bottle. It glowed, radiating an aura, a life of its own.
Facing the sun, the youth muttered something, an incantation perhaps; I couldn’t hear what it was. Then taking a deep breath, he drained the contents of the container.
The other high priest stood in front of the youth and unwrapped the youth’s loincloth. Standing naked he looked golden skinned, healthy, muscular and magnificent. Perfect man! Everything I aspired to be and could never achieve.
What’s happening now? I edged out a fraction more to see. Two of the orange clad priests were slowly moving their arms in silent rhythmic gestures over and around the youth. He stood completely still, staring ahead, while they performed this ritual, then when they’d finished, they stepped back and he climbed unaided onto the altar and lay there, face up.
What - I don’t understand. Something weird is happening to me. How can I be looking from the altar and here at the same time…? I blinked several times and wiped my face along my sleeve to clear my vision, but it stayed the same.
The boy smiled and my lips curved too. No! I shook my head, trying to clear it. Somehow he was influencing me. I clamped my lips tight.
A faint memory stirred … ‘When the sun strikes the golden temple Tinamaka will cleave my beating heart from my chest. The heart of a warrior prince. The gods are waiting to claim me.’
I shivered and looked behind me. Where in the hell did all that rubbish come from? Nobody spoke! It was in my head.
Am I going mad? I was terrified.
Then the penny dropped and I shuddered, not wanting to believe. Somehow I’m reliving the past! That kid is me and I’m going to be sacrificed! Offered to some pagan god. The hairs on my neck stood up and I was clammy with fear.
The high priest raised a jewel-handled, double-edge knife. Its long, wide blade glinted in the crimson rays of the sun and I cringed, sick to my stomach, petrified.
I crouched in the sanctuary of the golden temple while at the same time looking up from the altar into the expressionless eyes of the priest. I stared, transfixed. They’re the same dark eyes from the mirror!
No! He’s going to slice me straight down the middle. I wanted to rush over and stop him but fear kept me paralyzed.
The sun’s rays reached the golden tower, blinding me in a scarlet light. I heard the swift slice of the blade through the air; the thud and tearing sound.
No! No! I screamed as my world started to spin. Crimson, golden, silver, a kaleidoscope of blinding colors, blending, spinning – spinning. Then nothing else but the misty whirlpool pulling at me, drawing me headfirst into the vortex.
He murdered me, was all I could think. He murdered me. The thought kept repeating itself in my brain like a cracked record. My head stopped spinning and still disorientated, I opened my eyes. The mist was gone and I was alone in my bathroom. Emotionally spent, I vomited into the basin.
A thin line of saliva dribbled from my lips and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. My fingers were sore and wondering why, I glanced at them. The nails on my right hand were broken and torn, my fingertips raw. I shivered. I did that trying to peel the gold off the temple.
Date With the Devil.
This story came about as another group writing exercise. A random word and then a sentence were chosen from a book and a story was to be constructed by merging them into a story. 'Adrenalin' was the word and 'I've dreamed the same dream' was the sentence.
o0o
I slid further into the undergrowth as the beams from the torches probed, searching for us in the darkness. Five of us hid there, hearts hammering, sweating, not daring to move as the Germans methodically beat the bushes, looking for us.
Rivulets of water ran off the leaves and trickled down my neck, soaking me. The sodden earth was cold and I could feel my right leg starting to cramp.
Was it really the heavy cloud cutting visibility that confused the pilot into dropping us at the wrong place, I wondered, trying to ignore the spasm in my leg. Why didn’t the Captain abort the mission when the weather turned bad? How will we meet up with the Belgian underground now – and just where the hell behind enemy lines are we anyway? –
Maybe Johnno is right. Maybe this trip is cursed.
A German boot came within inches of my face and my heart lurched, pounding hard. I knew what to expect if they caught us. Torture, then shot as spies. I held my breath, waiting for him to yell to his comrades that he’d found the Englishmen but he moved on, searching, moving further away with the rest of his group.
Still we lay there in the mud. After about ten minutes I heard a rustling nearby as Captain Booth stirred. “Okay, lads”
he whispered. Quietly and quickly. There may be more about”.
Adrenaline surged through me as we emerged from the foliage and, Indian file, with rifles ready, moved in the opposite direction to the way the Germans had gone. I knew that any minute a burst of gunfire could flash out of the darkness, putting paid to us and our mission so I strained, all senses alerted, trying to hear any warning sounds in the forest as we hurried along.
We passed huge, uprooted dying trees lying in crazy angles next to fresh bomb craters while patches of bare ground denuded of any growth exposed raw, jagged gashes in the earth. It felt spooky and a chill ran up my spine as I remembered Johnno’s dream and the scared sound in his voice as he told me.
“It’s nearly a year since I had the first one and I’m telling you Clarkie, I’ve been given a warning”.
I’d laughed and opened my mouth to give some smart Alec comment but his expression made me change my mind. I figured he needed to talk about what was bothering him, so I’d waited while he gathered his thoughts.
“It’s been recurring, see – the dream” he’d said. “In the first one I was alone in a fog – a real pea souper. I couldn’t tell where I was, but it was somewhere dark and creepy and I felt miserable, cold and wet. Then somebody stepped out of the shadows and stood beside me. I couldn’t move to see who it was – they were just a silent, dark blob next to me but
there was a terrible feeling of malevolence all around us – as thick as the fog and we were both trapped in it, helpless. I woke up terrified at – I don’t know – a horrible feeling of impending doom”.
I’d stared at him as he wiped his sweaty hands down the side of his fatigues and fumbled for his cigarettes. We’d been I battles together and I’d never seen him this scared before.
“I’ve dreamed the same dream three more times and each time another faceless, dark shape comes and stands in the heavy fog. There are five of us now. All helpless, not able to move, waiting for something, or someone to do – I don’t know what. I know it sounds crazy but the feeling is evil and I always wake up in a sweat of fear”. He stopped speaking while he scratched around in his pockets looking for a match to light his cigarette.
I’d remained silent, not sure what to make of what Johnno was saying. I’d have bet a month’s pay he'd be one of the last people to be spooked by a nightmare. Sucking hard on his cigarette, he’d filled his lungs with smoke, exhaled, then continued. ”In the last dream a few nights ago a cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows and stood, looking at us.
The hood he was wearing hid his face but his eyes glowed, like two red hot coals. Then his hood slid off and we were looking into the face of - the Devil.
In slow motion he extended his covered arm, pointed his bony index finger and slowly moved it along our line. As he pointed at each one of us the fog cleared from around that person and I could see who was there. – Clarkie, there was you, the Captain, Sarg, Porter and me”.
Johnno sucked hard on his cigarette like it was a lifeline. He coughed and continued speaking. “Then the Devil started slowly moving his finger back along our line and I knew now why I’d been so scared. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that whoever he stopped at was a dead man, - but I woke up petrified before his pointing finger stopped”.
Johnno’s words had sent a chill up my spine but I’d tried to sound flippant, passing it off as a joke. “So one of us had a year to go and their time is nearly up, eh?”
Johnno’s hoarse whispered reply echoed around in my head. “Yeah, well if it’s not an omen, how come there are five of us on this mission? The same five as in my dream”. I shivered, feeling as if someone had just stepped onto my grave.
The track we were on widened a fraction before ending at a narrow country road. We stopped, waiting to see if anybody came along. Nobody did, so after a few minutes Captain Booth signalled it was safe to proceed and, cautiously, still in single file, we moved onto the side of the road and, keeping to the edge, eased along.
The rain had eased and a feeble moon was struggling through the clouds. The forest was sparser now, as if there had been some sort of clearing done. The Captain was leading and without warning he moved off the road. We followed him onto a grassy section that I first thought was part of an estate but I gave a start when I recognised where we were and glanced behind at Johnno to see his reaction. He didn’t look too happy either and stared stonily ahead.
The old graveyard hadn’t escaped the bombing. Its huge dead elm trees, mostly split, had branches twisted like frozen arthritic hands reaching upward. A thick grey low-lying fog hung suspended and our bodies easing through caused it to rise up, only to settle back again as we moved on.
We edged past graves, their broken headstones lying at crazy angles. Onward, we went, toward the centre of the cemetery. It gave me the creeps being in this colourless, lifeless landscape and I wished I was anywhere but here.
The soaking rain had started again making our saturated woollen uniforms heavier. It was freezing in the graveyard and I was chilled to the bone. All feeling had gone from my fingers and as I tried to move them to get the blood circulating, I hoped I didn’t have to use my rifle. I was a goner if I did.
Captain Booth stopped and signalled for the sergeant to check out a damaged building up ahead while the rest of us waited nerves taut, listening. It seemed like ages before he returned. “All clear” he whispered.
